“Are early-morning walks a speciality?”’
Mrs Verney gave a brief twitch of a smile as she spotted the clue she’d been waiting for. She now had a measure of how much the police had found out.
“When I can’t sleep, they are. To be up at six o’clock is a privilege of age. Especially in Rome. And, since that is what you seem to be getting at, yes, I was walking on the Aventino. Do you want the whole story?”’
“What do you think?”’
“As I say, I went for an early-morning walk. And—just by chance—found myself walking past the monastery.”
“Oh, come now,” Flavia said. “You expect me to believe that?”’
“It’s true,” she said with a fine mixture of surprise and indignation at being doubted. “Anyway, I saw a man come down the steps from the church. The door was open, so I thought that maybe they had early-morning services, or something like that.”
“And you felt a burst of piety come over you?”’
“More like nostalgia, I think. As I say, I’d visited the place many years ago, when I was young and fancy-free. And what could be more natural than to revisit it?”’
“What indeed?”’
“So I did. And found this poor man lying on the ground, with blood streaming out of his head. Now, I’m a good citizen, most of the time. I did what I could for the poor soul, then went straight away to phone the police for assistance. How is he, by the way?”’
“He’ll recover, we think.”
“There you are then. And rather than being thanked, here I am being interrogated as some sort of suspect. I must say, I am not happy about it.”
“Dear me. I suppose you can explain why you were so modest about receiving thanks for your considerate act?”’
“Do I need to? Heaven only knows what Jonathan has told you about me. But naturally I thought you would be suspicious if I was found there, however innocently, at such an early hour. In the circumstances. So I thought it best not to complicate the issue.”
“I see. Now, what time was this?”’
She grew vague. “I couldn’t really say. After six, before seven. Maybe.”
“We have witnesses that it was about six-fortyfive.”
“Must have been, then.”
“And the phone call was logged at seven-forty. That’s a long time to find a phone.”
She shook her head evenly. “Not really. There aren’t any bars open, and there aren’t many public phones in Rome. I went as fast as I could.”
“I see. Now, this man, did you recognize him?”’
“No. Why should I have done? Who is he?”’
“Was. A man called Peter Burckhardt. A dealer.”
“Was?”’
“He’s dead. Someone shot him.”
For the first time the unconcerned mask slipped. She hadn’t known that, and doesn’t like it, Flavia thought. How very interesting. What is she up to?
“Dear me.”
“Dear me, indeed. We are now investigating a murder, an assault and a theft. And you are right in the middle of the investigation.”
“You think I had something to do with this? When was the poor man killed?”’
“We think yesterday. About midday, give or take an hour. I suppose you can tell me where you were?”’
“Absolutely. I was in the Barberini, then I had lunch at my hotel, and then I went shopping. I can give you all the receipts, which I imagine have time stamps on them. They usually do, nowadays.”
“We’ll check them.” Not that there was much point. She knew they’d stand up.
“Can I go?”’
“No.”
“What more do you want from me?”’
“Answers.”
“I’ve answered everything you’ve asked so far.”
“I have a problem.”
“I’ll happily listen if it will help.”
“Perhaps it will. You see, I know that you are a thief. What’s more, I know that you are one of the most accomplished thieves I’ve ever come across. What was it? Thirty or so major thefts, and never a hint of suspicion.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Now, all of a sudden, you turn up in Rome. We get phone calls saying where the theft will take place. We notice you and question you. It worries me. From your past track record, you’ve been meticulous about planning. Never put a foot wrong. If you were involved in the theft of that icon I would have expected it to vanish without trace and without warning. And without violence. And I would have also expected that, when something went wrong, you would abandon everything and go home. Instead we were alerted in advance, there’s blood everywhere and you are still here. As I say, it makes me think.”
“The obvious conclusion, surely, is that I am telling the truth, and that none of this has anything to do with me at all.”
Flavia snorted. “I don’t think so.”
“But you can’t come up with anything better.”
“We’ll see.”
“You’re going to have to let me go, then.”
“Oh, yes. We never thought of holding on to you. This was just a friendly chat. The first, I suspect, of many.”
Mary Verney stood up, waves of relief passing through her, drenched with sweat and her heart still pounding. Appalling performance, she thought. Gave too much away to that damnable policewoman. She was getting too close for comfort. Besides, she was right; this was a disaster from beginning to end.
Flavia even opened the door for her, marvelling at the woman’s utter calm and insouciance as she walked out. Didn’t budge an inch. Leaving her as much in the dark as she was at the start.
Progress, however, was being made at the duller and more routine end of the enquiry; Peter Burckhardt was seen leaving his hotel on the morning of his death with a man in his late thirties and getting into a car. Flavia’s heart had a little skip when she heard this; because Burckhardt, bless him, had been staying in a hotel in the via Caetani. An ordinary street, a bit noisy from too much traffic, but less busy than the large, polluted thoroughfares all around it. It was a no-parking zone, and there was no obvious reason why anyone should pay any more attention to such trivialities in that quarter than they did anywhere else in the city.
Except for historical circumstance, of which Flavia fervently hoped the murderer of Burckhardt was unaware. Because just around one corner of the street was the via delle Botteghe Oscure, containing the headquarters of what had once been the Christian Democrat Party, and close to that was the place where terrorists dumped the body of Aldo Moro. It was all many years ago now; the Christian Democrats had fallen on hard times and the only memento of the former prime minister was the occasional ragged bunch of flowers left at the site where he was found.
But the police still kept close watch, fearful lest those dark days should suddenly come again. Perhaps they were more concerned now that angry voters would come to take revenge on the politicians who had deceived them for so many years, or perhaps it was simply because standing orders, once given, tend to get forgotten. All over Europe, perhaps, policemen stand and guard things for no reason except that their predecessors, and their predecessors’ predecessors, stood and guarded in exactly the same place. It was no doubt apocryphal, but a colleague in Paris had once told him of a building in Neuilly-sur-Seine, the residence of a minor ambassador, which had received round-the-clock surveillance for years after the embassy moved to other accommodation and the building was turned into a brothel.
